


You don't tell me what to do. You know that.

by WeNeedARuse



Series: When it's like this. [9]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Blowjobs, Choking, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Undertones, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Power Play, Sex, Tension, another two parter, dom!dutch, interrupted sexual act, like very light breath play, one small sacrilegious instance, sub!Arthur, there's a word for what Dutch does and I can't think of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 16:07:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18814348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeNeedARuse/pseuds/WeNeedARuse
Summary: "But when it’s like this. When Dutch is fully, wholly, completely, in charge.He’s not ashamed at all."





	You don't tell me what to do. You know that.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back back back and badder than ever! Except I quite like this one. This...kink.
> 
> I have, however written it on copious amounts of flu medicine so I'm just hoping it's actually coherent now I think about it....
> 
> This is another two-parter. Sorry! I had the idea in my head a while but the whole suddenly at the hospital thing wiped a lot of it out so I've split it in two. 
> 
> As always, I would love to hear your comments! And Kudos are always welcome, this series has made me really happy to write and knowing that you guys like it makes that even better. I really do love and appreciate every single one! 
> 
> So, yes, anyway, there might be a lot of spelling/grammar mistakes due to the fever and none of them are my fault, I will blame the medicine.
> 
> Please enjoy :)
> 
> Part two coming soon. Literally.  
> 

This room doesn’t feel like Dutch’s room, not really. It feels empty, a shell. He doesn’t spend much time here, Arthur knows that, but still.

It’s making him angry.

But, then, everything is making him angry at the moment. In the myriad of things that Arthur doesn’t like about himself, he thinks his temper might count number one. So that’s why, here

Alone

With Dutch

It calms him. 

Even though they stand on opposite sides of the room right now, arms folded, synchronized, silent, it calms him. Because he can be lead. Taught.

He doesn’t have to be angry any more. 

And he can focus, as he did when he was younger, on the small things. The fact that Dutch’s sleeves are rolled up, showing the muscle in his forearms. The fact that the sun is shining through the window and lighting on the chain at his waistcoat. Glinting. 

“It’s just…” He leans his head back against the wall and sighs. “Been an awful few months Dutch. I just want...peace.”

“I can’t give you that.” Arthur smiles.

“Well, I ain’t asking you to.” But Dutch is looking at him strange, those eyes boring into him, searching and pulling and twisting up in his brain. “I’m going to get some sleep.” He goes to push from the wall but Dutch speaks,

“Do you trust me?” Arthur drops his head back again,

“What a goddamn fool question. Of course I do.” There should be no need to ask. But Dutch does, sometimes. And sometimes,

“Do you love me, Arthur?” 

They don’t say it out loud. 

It’s known.

They don’t need to.

It makes them soft.

“Dutch, you know…” 

“Come here.”

Oh.

He knows that tone.

His feet move without conscious thought and he’s in front of Dutch in three strides. Three strides and then a hand around his throat, shoving him up against the wall.

“Do you love me now?” The hand applies pressure, the right pressure, to have Arthur pushing up on his toes. And he could kill him, could Dutch, with his bare hands. He’s seen him do it to others. He’s seen the strength of him. The anger.

He knows he should be scared.

But he’s just aroused.

“Always.” He grounds it out, spits his truth before the pressure gets too much and cuts off speech. 

And then the pressure is lifted, just a little, and Dutch is stripping down his own waistcoat, unbuttoning his shirt and Arthur's eyes drink in the sight before him,

Until he sees them

“How about now. Do you love me now?” 

Old scars. New bruises.

“My god, what have you done?” He wants to reach out, to touch, to feel the heat of them against his palms. He balls his hands into fists at his sides.

“What haven’t I done.” Dutch laughs to himself and pulls back, just a little. 

“Dutch…” It’s new, this is new. Dutch isn’t the type to get bested in a fight. He isn’t the type to get into that fight in the first place. 

“Do you think I’ve forgotten? What Colm did you? I’ve been out there, finding things, getting information…” Arthur groans, caught anxiously between pride and frustration.

“We got bigger things to worry about now than Colm O’fucking Driscoll.” Dutch’s hand is around his throat again but now it strokes down, across his shoulder to the bullet wound. He feels for it over Arthurs shirt, deft fingers pressing lightly over unhealed flesh. 

“He damaged you.” Arthur pushes against the burning in his shoulder and reaches up, grips Dutch’s hand in his.

“I was damaged a long time ago.” At that, Dutch laughs.

“Oh, be quiet Arthur.” Arthur leans back, watches him. He wants to ask what’s brought this on. He wants to ask what’s wrong but he knows he’ll never get an answer if he does. Dutch tells him things he thinks he needs to know. But he doesn’t tell him everything.

He’s learnt to accept that.

“Dutch…” He’s close again. Shirt undone, leg pressed between his, one arm on the wall besides Arthur's head. It’s making him weak.  
Lust.

It makes him weak.

He looks to the sun, quickly, and figures they have time.

“Dutch,” He murmurs again, remembers the night of the Mayors party, remembers his offer. He presses a hand to his chest, curls his fingers in the hair there. “I think you should fuck me before I go out of my goddamn mind.”

Silence.

For half a second.

Before a slow smile spreads across Dutch’s face and his voice,

Oh

So low

“You don’t tell me what to do Arthur. You know that.” 

If it were possible to come just because of the pitch of someone’s voice

“I know. I wasn’t telling. It was just a...a polite suggestion.” 

That smile,

God.

Arthur bites down, clenches his jaw, resists the urge to press forwards and kiss.

Instead he presses both hands to Dutch’s chest and pushes, gently, gently, until he’s back against the other instead. Keeps his eyes on his, for signs that this is not how it’s going to go. Waits, waits…

And then, kisses. Down his chest, burying his face briefly in the coarse hair, breathing in the scent of him.

Swallowing it down.

Further, down,

Lean stomach, hip bones. Bruises that make Dutch hiss in pleasurepain.

Down.

And out of the corner of his vision he sees Dutch spread his arms out wide against the wall.

Jesus on his cross,

My God.

Arthur drops to his knees. 

Taste and scent and sound and Arthur is lost in it. 

Until.

“Dutch! You got a minute? I got something you’ll want to see.” Arthur looks up and he knows there’s panic in his eyes because Bill is halfway up the stairs and he isn’t the type to politely knock. 

But Dutch just leans his head back against the wall and reaches down.

Grips hard to the back of Arthur's head with one hand.

And holds him in place.

“One moment Mr Williamson, if you please.” 

Arthur swallows convulsively.

“I’m just finishing something up, you go on down and I’ll be with you shortly.” 

How is he so calm?

Arthur thinks his heart might stop.

“In fact…” 

He can’t breathe. Tears in his eyes. He stares up at Dutch and waits. 

“Get John while you’re at it, I want to speak to him.” 

Dutch’s eyes are on his.

And they are proud.

And dark.

And 

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut.

His mouth full.

His throat on fire.

His lungs gasping for air.

He could die like this.

His own cock so painfully hard that he has to reach down, push the heel of his hand down hard.

The footsteps retreat.

Dutch shifts. Infinitesimally.

Arthur hears himself groan and he should be ashamed. He should. 

But when it’s like this. When Dutch is fully, wholly, completely, in charge.

He’s not ashamed at all.

The pressure on the back of his head releases but Arthur moves only enough to swallow shallow as Dutch strokes his hair with his other hand, combing back the strands from his sweat slick face.

“You love me now.” It’s not a question.

It’s a fact.

Dutch thrusts, once, twice, three times before pulling back suddenly and yanking Arthur to his feet. His fingers stroke under his jaw, pushing his head back.

A kiss.

Soft, barely there, planted in the centre of his throat.

“We’ll continue this later.”

“Dutch…” He’s so wound up he thinks he might explode.

To kiss him like that.

After.

“Please.”

“Don’t whine Arthur.” There’s fondness there, behind the darkness. Arthur strokes his hand back down his chest and wraps it around his cock. “And don’t think you can get away with that.” 

Arthur smiles.

He knows he won’t get away with it.

He did it for that reason after all.

“Your room. Tonight.” Arthur lets go, steps back and lets Dutch dress himself, watches as if from afar as he tucks himself back in, buttons up his shirt, his waistcoat.

All buttoned up.

“But your bed is bigger.” 

“Your room is less likely to get invaded by Bill Williamson.” Dutch is across the room now, tugging one shirt sleeve down and slipping a cufflink through the hole. Arthur watches.

He likes this part.

“God I hope so.” 

Dutch is at the door now, hair slicked back, Mr Van Der Linde.

“Oh, and Arthur,” An afterthought, casually thrown out there as the door is opened. “You might want to think about preparing.”

Arthur catches his eye.

He knows what that means.

He knows what it’s going to be like.

He grins.

“Sure Dutch.”


End file.
